His eyebrows pinch together. “What is?”
“The next awful thing. Something trying to kill us.”
I can see the solemn reminder in his eyes, the pain he still feels in his scarred flesh, and he twines his fingers through mine, turning his gaze back to the sea.
They arrive like a parade.
Boats in the distance.
Panic swells inside me. Hundreds of them, mostly sailboats, and I know this can’t be good. My fingers press against the windowpane, my breath steaming the glass.
“Some of them are burning,” Clay says.
I notice the thin trails of smoke rising up from several of the ships. “Why would they be burning?”
We stay inside, the rifle beside the front door. The two handguns, left behind by the men who we killed, rest on the kitchen counter, loaded.
But we know, if the people on those boats come ashore, we will be outnumbered. We will be at their mercy.
We wait for the sun to set before we step outside, walking down tothe shore, scanning the ships. Most are dark, not even a hint of light. But a few glow with the unmistakable shroud of fire—fuel or wood hulls burning. We are quiet, listening, but there is no sound.
No voices.
Nothing in the dark.
“I think they’re abandoned,” Clay says. “Some are tipped on their sides, slowly sinking.”
It doesn’t make sense. Why would a few hundred ships be abandoned?
“I don’t like it,” I reply.
“Nae.”
It takes two days for the ships to drift by us, the silence of them eerie—like forgotten relics. But on the third day, when most have slipped beyond the horizon, one bumps up against our far shore.
A white catamaran, its pale blue sail flapping from the mast—torn, like shreds of paper—with a rope whipping wildly around it.
This side of the island is rocky and steep, the shore below nearly impossible to reach, but Clay strips off his shirt, stepping out of his pants, then kisses me on the lips. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait!”
He stops, turns around. “There might be food,” he answers, seeing the fear in my eyes. “And we need more firewood.” He winks at me, as if it were no big deal. As if death weren’t always clawing at our door. “I’ll be careful, promise.”
It’s been days and we haven’t seen anyone on the other ships. Maybe they’re truly empty. I nod, crack an encouraging smile, and watch him scramble down the rocks, his body favoring his right side, legs stiff, but his strong arms propelling him forward until he reaches the water. The catamaran is heaving up over the rocks with each swell, and Clay has to time the waves, waiting for them to recede before he leaps onto the side of the boat, winces, then climbs over a metal wire that serves as a railing along the outer perimeter of the boat.
He touches his side with his palm—the place where the bullet is still lodged—then waves back at me so I know he’s safe, before striding toward the rear of the craft.
I’ve never been aboard a catamaran, but I’ve seen them in photographs, movies, and this one looks different. The angle is sleeker, shaped to a narrow point at the front. Streamlined and unfamiliar. A reminder of all the years of innovation that have passed in the real world since I left.
At the back of the boat, Clay walks past the large wheel, then glances up at me one last time, before stepping into a doorway, into the interior of the boat—and I lose sight of him.
If there’s anyone inside, they will think he’s an intruder, a thief. And I don’t know how strong he’d be in a fight. He’s hardly eaten in days, his wound still aching.
My gaze flicks to the slope below, calculating if I could make the climb. But the rocks are slick and oversized—much too big for me to navigate on my own. If I fell, scraped open a knee, or worse, broke a bone, I’d be creating more problems where currently there are none. So I stay put.
“Clay!” I call when too much time has passed. But I doubt he can hear me over the wind and the pummeling waves.
At last, he appears at the opening into the boat. In his arms, he’s carrying something, and he tosses it unceremoniously over the side onto the rocks.
